Sunday, November 13, 2011

He was a Dog

He was a dog; pure and chaste. He was of the kind who had fallen in love once in his life and had lost that love due to shyness to express his feelings. Some call this quality of his a form of excessive pride. But, I think he is a chaste dog; a chaste dog whose morale is only fragile when it comes to politics. Once upon a time, he was a revolutionary. I do not recall in which place or year. I heard he was hanged once, but survived the execution by a mere coincidence the details of which I do not recall.

Such a handsome dog he is: fit and muscular, as white as a bridal dress of a virgin bride, stainless and with big curious eyes. He rarely barks and if he does, it is a gracious bark; one that has rhythm and commands respect. He looks seemingly indifferent to his immediate environment. But, he observes with the eyes of an eagle. He finds humans excessively boring and finds their ideas outdated and colorless. He especially hates those horrific animals, otherwise called humans, who violently show him affection as they pass by his owner and compliment the owner for her handsome dog. In particular, among the human race, he resents his owner. When his eyes meet hers, he conveys silent hatred and ridicules her when she misunderstands this revengeful glance as a sign of love and affection of the dog for her.

Her former lover called him disturbed. He thinks she was right. They only met once on the sidewalk when her owner was pulling her away from him. They fell in love on sight; or at least this is what he thinks. He thinks she was incredibly smart for detecting his disturbed soul on the spot. In fact, this might have been the reason for why he fell in love with her. Ever since, he embraces his own disturbed soul with pride as this is the only souvenir of that failed love extravaganza; as he calls it.

He does not recall when he was born a dog; he only speculates that it must have been when he faced the misery of his own revolution. He remembers giving a speech to a nation of sorts. He recalls millions of hopeful eyes staring at him in search of their prosperous future. He remembers killing them in the name of some glorious revolution of sorts. And, he remembers long evenings saturated with night letters, clandestine political lovemaking and glorious laughter filled with orgasmic fear of death and execution. He remembers dying and he remembers rising a hero who participated in bloody rebellions against his own revolution. But, nobody ever listened to him anymore.

He became a heroic statue glorified as a patriotic solider who lived and died for his own nation of sorts. And, once a hero, nobody cared about what he had to say anymore. He stood there with his lifeless body to represent death and cruelty in the name of some glorious revolution. They executed thousands in that square in front of his eyes and when he cried his tears rolled over his statue-body. Nobody ever noticed his tears, his screams, his regrets, his self-beatings and self-hatred. They only praised him and eventually when the time came they threw pebbles at his statue. He enjoyed the intolerable pain of the pebbles thrown against his statue-body beyond words. He remembered her say, “you are disturbed!” and he remembered that failed love extravaganza that had yet to happen.

He is not there anymore; wherever that was. He does not know where he is. In fact, the reason he does not escape the miserable life of his owner might be that he has no clue where in this world he is and he is afraid of getting lost; or at least this has been his excuse for staying around in the past years. “Such a handsome dog!” the owner’s neighbor disgustingly compliments him as she walks by.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Perhaps this is the Right Place to Start the Story..

Perhaps this is the right place to start the story. Right is such a funny word. But, you know what I mean, don’t you? Columbus Circle, New York City, Year 2011. I mean what other setting could be more typically authentic for the story of an Americanized immigrant than midtown Manhattan and its organized chaos? But, my story, this story, has very little to do with New York City. In fact, if anything this story is one of the loss of time and space altogether.

You know, I have lately started to like New York, because it makes me feel the very skin of the person who I feel I have grown to become: a lost exiled immigrant who looks more Americanized than anything else really perhaps. It is not like Washington DC where it gives me the illusion of one day climbing up the ladder of power with the help of my story and growing to become a serious American politician of sorts; a feeling that admittedly used to intoxicate me with one million dreams. It is also not like Cambridge, Massachusetts where I went to Harvard University and where one lives the illusion of being among the few intelligent minds of the world; a feeling that I admittedly embraced for some years. New York makes me feel like a commoner; even worse like an immigrant commoner who is going to have to start from point zero over and over again and never really reach the top or perhaps never really aspiring to reach the top. Now, I know I sound like an elitist woman who tries to resemble the sound of the masses. Don’t ask me why I have this feeling. I just somehow do. It could be the greatness of New York or somehow the invisibility that it grants the people or its particular rhythm. Whatever it is, it is only recently that I have begun to feel the the pulse of this town beating against mine or against millions rather. It is a rough feeling and an irritatingly honest one. It is like a man that does not know romance, but knows love, a man that does not know how to pamper you or rather does not think that pampering you is necessary, but knows how to love you better than all other men in the world or at least that is what you think.

Somehow sitting here today in my formal suit, waiting for work meetings and biting on a large slice of pizza while holding a second slice in my other hand, I feel the way I think I should have felt all these years: numb. I feel numb and therefore liberated. I feel I don’t belong to this place nor to any other place really. One tear drops from my left eye right on my ravaged slice of pizza. I blame it on the wind; the deceiving warm breeze of November that has been procrastinating in turning freezing cold.

I feel full. It is such a warm November day here in the city. I feel sleepy and lazy. I look at a homeless guy who is sleeping across the street and envy him for his deep sleep. It has been now almost a month that I have not been able to really sleep. My sleep has become as light as a feather; that’s only when I actually do fall asleep. Some Chinese woman at the other side of the circle shouts out somebody’s name and for some silly reason I hear her say my name in a Chinese accent. I get up and look around to see which of my long list of shadow-like friends have bumped into me and soon I realize it is the reunion of two Chinese ladies on the other side of the square and their excitement has nothing to do with me.I miss the days when I was certain that I were the center of the universe. I don't remember how and when my bubble burst. It must been hard to wake up from that dream. I do not really recall. Mild Alzheimer, I repeat the mild kind, could be a blessing at times.

Well, in any case, I said to you that I want to tell you some story. But, honestly, I wonder if you are even interested. It could be quite an arbitrary story. It certainly feels so damn irrelevant to where I am sitting as we speak. You must have heard these stories a million times. I mean looking around me here in this town, there must be at least some few million stories like the one that I wish I had the time to tell you. Maybe some other time! But, right now, I am enjoying the invisibility that this city has granted me. I have to run to my meeting. New York is a wonderland, but oh my, I miss Tehran so much. I heard it snowed there today. I wish I could just touch that silky snow of Tehran; this is just me romanticizing the snow that perhaps has already turned grey in the pollution of Tehran. I wonder if my dad was able to feel the snow this time around. It must have sat on his gravestone. I hope he enjoyed the fresh feeling of it. I am late for my meeting.

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